Roses are red - Valentine’s is taboo

I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. Don’t get me wrong, I like romance as much as the next person. But the day itself? Nah, not for me.

Regardless of my views on the topic, the air is thick with the red of hearts and roses every February. Why are cut flowers and body blood pumps the sign of adoration?

Okay, so roses are pretty while they’re fresh, but should you be lucky enough to receive any, the next two weeks are spent watching them shrivel. And I’ve never been sure why hearts are a symbol of love. Have you ever seen a heart? They are disgusting-looking things.

If we’re to have a body part to represent love, maybe a stomach would be more appropriate given the numbers of us trooping to restaurants every Valentine’s Day to prove our love. Or maybe lips should be the symbol of romance? Just something that doesn’t smell of old blood would be a blessing.

St Valentine himself is an obscure saint from the dullest of Middle Ages way back in the Days of Yore. He martyred himself somehow, but no one is quite sure how or why. Rumour and conjecture has it that St Valentine was a martyr so unknown that he was gifted an empty day to keep as his own. Shame was that he’d already been dead for about 15 centuries by the time someone thought to give him this gift. He was probably past caring. Quite amazing that his name is so well known these days.

But my main problem with Valentine’s Day is that we’re doing it all the wrong way around. February the 14th should be the day we don’t have to be romantic. We should be able to loll about on the sofa, farting, not doing the washing up, wearing dirty knickers, failing to open the door for our loved one, and telling them everything that’s wrong with them.

Once we’ve got it all out of our systems, we are then free to spend the other 364 days of the year being lovely to each other and making sure our backsides aren’t hanging out of our jeans and all the rest of that romantic stuff.